


I Cannot Live Without My Love

by wiredtothemoon



Category: The Duchess (2008)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, Infidelity, Neck Kissing, OFC - Freeform, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25369054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiredtothemoon/pseuds/wiredtothemoon
Summary: Her entire adult life spent in a loveless marriage, Bess has become accustomed to feeling numb. Her Grace The Duchess of Devonshire reminds Bess what it is to truly feel - to burn.A reimagining in which Bess and Georgiana give into their desires (i.e. the continuation of the "this is what sex SHOULD feel like" scene). Starting from the beginning, because we love a slow burn.
Relationships: Georgiana Spencer Cavendish Duchess of Devonshire/Bess Foster
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	I Cannot Live Without My Love

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe if I actually post this, it will magically turn me into someone who can sustain interest in what she's writing beyond the first flash of inspiration?  
> I have a vague plan for at least up to the sex-scene-that-should-have-been moment. Let's see how far I get.

It had been a coincidence, nothing more, that as their eyes met, Bess felt the fetid breath of him on her neck. He was asking her how it was possible that he could have missed such a specimen as her, and could he take it that this was her first season in Bath? She smiled, a slight lifting at the corners of her mouth, but she didn’t take her eyes away from the vision before her.  
Feathers that were defying the laws of gravity, wafted in her wake, at least two foot above her head. Her skirts were so broad as to carve a channel through the rabble that had surrounded her from the moment she had been announced at the door.  
Any intimate soirée became an event as soon as Her Grace arrived, and this evening was no exception. Before she had arrived, there were dour-faced widows and mothers in corners, pinched looks on their faces as they surveyed the few – and apparently, poor – bachelors that were in attendance this November evening. All the men had lined the walls, in their own enclaves, immune to the glances and whispers directed at them by various young women, all of whom longed to be led onto the impromptu dancefloor.  
And then, “The Duke and Duchess of Devonshire!”  
Bess had turned from the mother of five young women, with whom she had been trapped in conversation, who had been trying to engage her in mourning the lack of any suitable company these days; when she saw the Duchess, for a second, she forgot how to breathe. All those who had been so unsatisfied with the night thus far suddenly brightened, and there was an instinctive press on all sides towards the new arrivals.

For the next hour, as the Duchess made her way around the room, clasping the hands of acquaintances, flirting her fan at various politically-minded gentlemen (who blushed like schoolboys at the attention), Bess had angled herself so that she might always be in the eyeline of the woman who had managed, just for that moment, to take her out of herself. It had been years since Bess had felt the unsettling sensation of being drawn to someone. She thought wryly to herself, not since long before she had been introduced to Lord Foster. Not since…  
And as the memories of Isabel drifted to the forefront of her mind, that was when she realised that she was finally being regarded by the object of her infatuation. For an instant, Bess read curiosity in those deep, brown eyes, the almost child-like interest of someone who was accustomed to having whatever her heart desired. For the fraction of a second, Bess felt alive at the thought that she might be that heart’s desire – a thought that, later, she couldn’t quite quell despite its presumption.  
And a breath later, the eyes turned cool, jaded, as the Duke bent to mutter into Bess’ ear. The Duchess continued her dance, the familiar steps seeming second-nature, and as Bess attempted to politely express her disinterest in the Duke’s rather unsubtle overtures, she felt the weight of that gaze from across the room on her cheek, her throat, her breast.  
Without knowing what she said, Bess moved away from the Duke, and went to the stand of refreshments that stood towards the rear of the room. She hardly knew what she was doing, as she picked up pieces of fruit and cake at random, desperately trying to suppress her blush. What had come over her? She was no unworldly girl, unaccustomed to the presence of beautiful people – men or women. She had been married to Lord Foster for near a decade, and she was well aware of the faults, foibles and hedonistic manners of the upper echelons of society. To become so flustered at the mildest of attentions was beneath her, particularly when that attention had been less to do with her and far more to do with the unwelcome advances of the Duke. Bess had long prided herself on her ability to look at her situation in life with a discerning eye, to note the flirtations, dalliances and affairs that kept this sort of people feeling alive. For God’s sake, she was here to allow her husband to enjoy his mistress in peace, wasn’t she? She knew better than many that jealousy, uncouth as it was, offered those who lived such a cosseted existence a taste of danger, a hint of excitement to break up the monotony of balls, galas and houseparties. And yet – the memory of the frisson that had passed between herself and the Duchess, before the Duke made his presence known, wouldn’t leave her alone. Bess thought of the brief glimpse of envy she had caught in Her Grace’s eyes; she allowed herself to imagine that perhaps, just perhaps, that envy was of the Duke and his proximity to Bess, rather than the other way around.  
As this traitorous musing crossed her mind, Bess was suddenly called back to herself, by a low, fluting voice.  
“Hello. I don’t think we’ve been introduced.”


End file.
